


here's what happens when the lights go out

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: zolf smith v the concept of emotional openness [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (there is a difference), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Azu is Literally The Best, F/F, Gen, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sasha and Zolf are best friends, Therapy, also ft. canon typical zolf bitterness, and GOD KNOWS THEY NEED IT, everyone has tattoos, hugs!!!, oh also tattoos, please feel better sir, therapy! hugs! and tattoos!, this fic has plot I swear but I think the more important things are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 13:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: When Zolf was younger, he’d dream in stories. He’d dream about the plots of books he read or the television programmes he watched with Feryn or worlds of fantasy from his own imagination. When Zolf was younger, he’d dream cohesively, in vivid colour, with people and words and magic. It’s a cruel irony. When Zolf was younger, he dreamed so brightly he didn’t want to wake up.Now, it’s hell.(or, I remain on brand with putting people through hellish dreamscapes.)





	here's what happens when the lights go out

**Author's Note:**

> hello. hi. yes. handwaving, please give the kids therapy, etc, etc etc. 
> 
> fun note on night terrors! and by fun I mean awful, because I did a good bit of research and I know stuff now. amnesia is a common side effect after waking up. which is a bit yikes. be on the lookout
> 
> working title: _I'm feeling grumpy so no one gets to have fun >:(_

Here’s how the nights go, for all the reporters and curious social media commentators who have been itching for a follow-up on the mysterious reappearance of Zolf Smith, for everyone who has pried and asked for interviews, for everyone who has followed the story of the fifteen year lost soldier for the intrigue and gossip. Here’s how the nights go, for everyone who bleeds false sympathy for the suspense of it all. 

Badly. 

Nights go badly. Zolf has nightmares. It’s just a fact. He’s pretty sure it’s obvious to everyone at therapy, but only Sasha knows the extent. She won’t accept his apologies or his offer to move out, but he knows he spooks her, sometimes. It’s a perfectly reasonable reaction. Zolf isn’t dramatic about it; he knows that some people can’t deal with an erratic sleeping schedule in a flatmate and that’s  _ fine.  _

Zolf has night terrors. That’s just a fact. He wouldn’t have blamed Sasha if she wanted him to leave. He’s glad that she didn’t, though.

But why bother with reflection? Here’s how the nights go, for everyone who’s  _ curious.  _

When Zolf was younger, he’d dream in stories. He’d dream about the plots of books he read or the television programmes he watched with Feryn or worlds of fantasy from his own imagination. When Zolf was younger, he’d dream cohesively, in vivid colour, with people and words and magic. It’s a cruel irony. When Zolf was younger, he dreamed so brightly he didn’t want to wake up.

Now, it’s hell. Now, approaching his bed feels Herculean. Now, getting in and lying down spurs his heart into a jittering rhythm, balking like a skittish racehorse at the start line. Now, it takes Zolf an hour of staring at the water stains on the ceiling to drift away. Sometimes more. 

_ Blood and gore and grime and vomit and fever and there’s a knife in his leg and this is where he dies this is where he dies he _

Images come in flashes. Sound comes in snippets. It’s too real and too bright and too immediate. Zolf is a dreamer. This is just a fact. It’s not something he can change. 

_ And of course d’Ville leaves. Zolf was never like them in the first place he was never  _ like them  _ so why bother taking him out of the brig at all, right? Why bother hoping they’d come after him after Aurora was boarded, right?  _

Noise deafens him. Pictures assault him. The walls press in and then turn to water. Zolf has been through this before. It’s just a fact. It’s not something he can change.

_ And it was Zolf the Americans wanted anyway, not d’Ville, not any of the bastards who ran, because a Meritocratic soldier was a gold standard, a well of information, and it’s not like Zolf knew what was happening it’s not like Zolf knew what was happening it’s not like Zolf knew what was happening it’s not like Zolf knew the feeling of his bone against the air, yet, it’s not like he knew the wooden cell floor against his burning cheek, yet, it’s not like he knew it’s not like he KNEW _

To say that Zolf wakes up screaming would be a cliche of a clinically incorrect understatement. He doesn’t wake up, for starters, and the noises that have been leaving his mouth are more words than screams, more cries of survival than pure fear. 

He’s trying to run. He’s trying to run and he can’t and he doesn’t know what he’s running from, this mounting feeling of dread and terror and  _ it’s not like Zolf knew what was happening it’s not like Zolf knew what was happening  _ and it’s not a nightmare. 

Not anymore. 

See, the nightmares aren’t what scare Sasha. It’s the sleep horrors, the awful sound of a throat scraped raw, the way that Zolf thrashes beneath the blankets. He’s trying to run. His eyes are wide open but he’s far from awake and his good leg kicks wildly, one tattooed arm tangling the quilt as he tries to scramble back.

And he’s screaming  _ words.  _ That’s the worst part. Sasha has crept to the doorway of the room because this is the fourth time it’s happened tonight. Zolf has only woken up once, quietly, from a nightmare, but it’s three in the morning and he’s bolted upright and unseeing once every hour like clockwork  _ and it’s not like Zolf knew what was happening _ . Ten minutes at a time, sometimes less, sometimes more. Always screaming, always thrashing, always fighting for his life. 

Sasha’s gotten good at sleeping through them.

Tonight is different, though, because he’s trying to run, and Sasha has never been so worried about her flatmate in months. It’s been fifteen minutes and he’s still crying out, still shielding one side of his head with his forearm and waving the other in a fist, and Sasha does the only thing she can.

She calls Azu.

Azu’s number is on Sasha’s phone - whoever asks why  _ will  _ get stabbed - and luckily ‘A’ is towards the top of her contacts list. She forgets that it’s three in the morning. She forgets that Azu is probably sleeping and that it’s rude to call so late at night but the line clicks to life, sleepy and hesitant, as Azu’s newly-woken voice whispers, “Sasha?” 

Sasha ducks into the hallway to lessen the noise. “Hey, Azu.”

“What’s going on?” Azu asks, and Sasha can hear the furrow in her brows. “Is everything alright? Are  _ you  _ alright?”

“‘M fine,” says Sasha, glancing back towards Zolf’s bedroom. “Nah, sorry for waking you, it’s just - I dunno if I can say this, legally, but Zolf’s having a bad night and I don’t think anyone else could do nothin’ about it, so-” She clears her throat. “Can you help?”

The shifting of sheets rustles as Azu sits up, presumably, and Sasha hears a lightswitch click. “I can try,” the doctor promises solemnly. “What’s the problem?”

Sasha presses her back to the wall. “Well,” she says, “he won’t stop screaming.” 

“Oh, goodness,” Azu sighs, soft and concerned, and somehow, Sasha thinks it’ll be okay.

* * *

A man wakes up, flushed, breathing heavily, his heart racing. He is in a place. He is himself and he is in a place and he doesn’t know who or where he is and there’s a woman nearby with a cell phone. The man looks around, tries not to panic. “Wh-what’s—”

“Hey, ‘s alright,” says the woman in an accent that the man recognises. He recognises her but doesn’t know how. “Can you look at me? Azu said you might not remember anything for a bit, so I’m gonna, uh. Bring you back, I guess? You gotta bear with me, Zolf, we’re working on it.” 

_ She’s one of them she’s one of them she’s one of them she’s — _ the man presses his back to the edge of the bed and looks for escape routes. “Who the hell are you?” he demands. “And if Kepler sent you, I—”

“Zolf, it’s me,” the woman presses onwards. “It’s Sasha. Sasha Gusset. We live together. I’m your flatmate? We accidentally double rented the place and I almost stabbed you when you walked in? Remember?” 

Sasha waits a moment, looks down at the phone. “Am I doing this right?” she hisses. “I feel like I’m not doing this properly, Azu.” 

“Sasha,” the man repeats. He swallows. His throat is sandpaper dry. He knows the name. He doesn’t know why. “Sasha, what’s going on here?”

“You, um— you—” Sasha glances to the Caller ID like it’ll pull her through this. “You’re Zolf Smith. I’m Sasha Gusset. Azu is — here.” She taps the phone. “I’m your flatmate, you had a nightmare, and you’re home.”

“Hi, Zolf,” Azu’s voice crackles in gently. “Do you know where you are now?”

Zolf does. It took a few minutes, but he does. He doesn’t really want to think about it. 

“Hey, Sasha,” he says instead, resisting every urge to duck back under the covers and have a genuine breakdown. “Thanks, Azu.”

* * *

Sasha drags Zolf out of bed in time for therapy, almost literally. She knows he hasn’t been sleeping, but he hasn’t left the room since three in the morning. “It doesn’t matter if I miss today,” says Zolf, adamantly refusing to put on the prosthetic. “Azu will get it.”

“You’re not the only person in this household, Zolf,” Sasha replies, folding her arms.  _ “Some of us  _ —”

“Just ask her out, for gods’ sakes,” Zolf huffs, tugging at his beard as he moves to turn off the light again. “And leave me alone.”

“The whole point of therapy is that it makes you feel better when you’re doing not good,” Sasha says, eloquent as ever, swiping at a candle on Zolf’s dresser like an annoyed cat and catching it immediately in her other hand. “Which you’re not, mate. I mean—” 

“I’m fine,” says Zolf on instinct, and Sasha snorts. He sighs, massages one of the scars over his sternum that’s decided to be particularly bothersome this morning. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Have you even spoken to Hamid yet?” Sasha asks smugly, and leaves the room. Zolf stares at the closed door, fuming. 

He _doesn’t_ like Hamid al-Tahan. So what if he always makes a point to sit next to Zolf? So what if Zolf always makes sure there’s an extra chair beside him? Hamid al-Tahan is _not_ the type of person Zolf can have feelings for, and he _doesn’t._

He’s just thinking about the empty chair.

* * *

So they go to therapy. Zolf has run out of button-downs to wear, and has run out of available motivation to find them, so he throws on a t-shirt and Sasha guns it to the London branch of the Tahan bank. He doesn’t even think about what he looks like until Hamid walks in, impeccable as always, and sits down next to him.

Zolf feels cold, suddenly, feels the pressing need to cover the thick, raised scars that slice across his forearms so the group can’t read exactly how fucked up he is with a flick of their eyes. 

Hamid leans over, points, and says, “Is that Ursa Major?”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” Hamid reaches as if to take Zolf’s wrist and flip it over, then decides against it. “The, um, the constellation, is that Ursa Major?”

It’s the first thing Zolf inked on his body. Feryn did it, actually, with some friends, under a pitch black night sky. “Yeah.” Zolf clears his throat. “Yeah, it is. For navigation. Since the Big Dipper has Polaris in it, my brother thought it’d be good luck to get done before I left.” He pauses, traces the pattern absently. “Guess not, considering. Didn’t stop me from being superstitious.”

Hamid’s face has lit up. “I didn’t know you have a brother!” he says, and sounds so excited that Zolf can’t bring himself to break the news yet. “Older or younger?”

“Older,” says Zolf, and his chest feels so tight it’s an effort to breathe.

“Oh, I’ve got an older brother,” Hamid agrees, “he’s a menace, but we love him. Saleh’s really gotten his act together in the past few months, and Mum’s so proud.”

“Feryn, he— he wasn’t like that,” Zolf says, and it’s the eulogy he wasn’t home to hear. “Maybe a bit too responsible, save for the time he tattooed his kid brother, but, um—” He clears his throat. “He was a good man.”

The pause is broken by the chatter of Veseek and Grizzop, of Sasha and Zeke, of Sam and the other Sasha, neither of whom are  _ that  _ Sasha. 

“When?” Hamid asks, and his voice is low, throaty. 

Zolf has to think about it. “I don’t even know, Hamid,” he admits, and inhales sharply. “I don’t know.”

Azu walks in. Zolf breathes a sigh of relief, then remembers that actual therapy things have to happen now. She smiles at Zolf with so much warmth that he remembers why he doesn’t open up to people. Kindness is terrifying. 

Sasha James opens up today. Her boyfriend died, a guy named Tim. A demolitions expert. Weirdly enough, Sasha  _ Jaime  _ knew a guy named Daniel who worked with Tim, but had never met Tim in the first place. At any rate there was an issue. A miscalculation. His co-worker, Daniel, swears up and down that the explosives being tested were rigged perfectly, so the police have opened investigation into both a suicide and a murder.

Zolf is mostly quiet, as usual. He answers Azu’s question of “What risk did you take today?” with “Wearing this t-shirt,” which gets a few laughs, but Zolf is serious. He’s shivering, but he’s not sure whether it’s from the cold or nerves.

* * *

Azu calls Zolf back after the session ends, which keeps happening. He feels like a bad student. “Zolf,” Azu says, somber as ever, “may I hug you?”

He starts.  _ “What?”  _

“I am asking you permission, as your therapist,” Azu says from where she looms above him, “to give you a hug, as your friend.”

Zolf shrugs and refuses to think about why he feels so stressed at the prospect of being touched. “Sure, I guess.”

Azu has to lean down to put her arms around him — really, she’s strong enough to lift Zolf off his feet, if she wanted — but the hug is surprisingly gentle. Azu rests her head on his shoulder and murmurs, “I am glad you’re okay. Sasha was very worried.” 

“Sorry for waking you up,” Zolf replies, because he’s forgotten how to say ‘thank you.’

Releasing him, Azu gestures that he sit, and Zolf returns to his chair. “I am available anytime you need me,” she says. “You can get my personal number from Sasha.”

“Wait, Sasha has your personal number?” Zolf asks, squinting, and it’s Azu’s turn to be tense.

“No…?” 

Zolf regards her for a long, long moment.  _ “Sure,”  _ he says finally, and Azu can’t hide her tiny smile. “Listen, I’m pretty sure she’s outside this room, so if you want a moment of privacy, I can go. Alright?”

Azu catches him by the arm as he stands, her face serious again. “I mean it,” she says, soft, but with the iron will of gods behind it. “If you need me, all you have to do is ask. I  _ am  _ here for you. Talk to me, Zolf. You don’t have to feel bad about it.”

This time, Zolf takes a long moment, but it’s so he can swallow back the emotion choking him. “Right,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “Thanks. I’ll see you next week, Azu.” 

* * *

(Sasha swings in afterwards, as Azu is shutting off the lights. “Hey, Azu.”

“Sasha!” Azu cries, beaming, and sweeps up the smaller woman in a hug. Sasha doesn’t protest, which would raise alarm bells from literally anyone who knew her. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Alright,” says Sasha, nodding. She has just spotted a new floral design on Azu’s neck, and her eyes have shifted slightly to the right. “That new?”

Azu brings her finger to the minimalistic garden of roses and violets that spill down her collarbone, shining against her dark brown skin with tones of white and pink and gold and purple. “I just got it done last week,” she says, pleased. “Do you like it?”

Azu tilts her head so Sasha can see the patterns in full, a pleased little rumble in the base of her throat. Azu has very muscular shoulders, and Sasha is thinking about them. “It’s, um — it’s nice,” she says, then tries to clarify. “I mean, it’s  _ really  _ nice! It’s got all the colours, and the — the swirly bits, and, um. ‘S well good, really.”

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid. Nice job, Gusset.  _

“Thank you,” says Azu. Are her cheeks pink? Are her cheeks pink because Sasha’s embarrassing her? “I — I like your daggers. I think they’re very cute.”

“You noticed that?” Sasha’s hand is at her wrist in an instant, and she’s grown a bit more impressed, if that was possible. “It’s for me and my brother, Brock; we’ve got — we’ve got matching ones. Bit of a joke, really, but it’s nice. Tried convince our dad to get one, but he wouldn’t, and, I mean. I think that’s fine. It’d be a bit weird to cross three knives, anyway.”

“I like it,” Azu repeats. Sasha’s smile takes up her whole face.)

**Author's Note:**

> as per usual, thank you so dearly for reading!! come chill w me on tumblr @thoughtsbubble or on twitter @mostlyzoe where I can and will be found yelling about rusty quill. comments and kudos are, of course, deeply deeply loved. <3


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